If you love me,

let me go.

I woke the wound
with tired vengeance
it moves to quake my bones
it lurks in the veins, lives in
the cracks of my heart,
cradling contempt like a
worn package

I'm too afraid to move.

bite my tongue
tossing sleep
lost teeth to
falling fences
stumble deep

imaginary deaths
breathing bloody thoughts
there's a knot in
my throat and i
fashion a noose to hang
unsuccessful me's

empty funeral of
echoing halls
unholy silence
unhappy sad

lonely
lonely
lonely
reach but
can't touch
stand here sickly
wasted struggle
wrong weary

invisible

“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of True Romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way."
Hunter S. Thompson

And you, child, are brave because
you keep on living.

I feel sick, a
nervous laughter stirring in the
marrow of my bones, a
migraine in the ribs
do you have a voice when the
world has no ears?

rust

she wipes the dust from her
wood shelf heart, old
books and ornaments that
speak in tears and shatters

an aged journal, broken
leather that smiles in creases
tender sheets that know the
weight of soul and pen

she ruffles its pages--
smelt of earth and sadness--
tracing her fingers over
words of ink. she finds a
pin-pricked paper vein
a painful nothing, disappearing
within the folds of diaries

a lyrical abyss upon a
blank page, she hears
herself within the spaces
within an emptiness

"am i alone
and shall i always be alone?"

she twists her lungs in
knots, clenching hope as if to
suffocate it. she strangles,
stranded in a fugue of
ghostly voices--choke, smother, fight.
spirit-stifled, she waits to
exhale, but breath suspended
cannot sing